America's Favorite Pastime
by Lisilgirl
Summary: Claire, Sylar, and Peter meet up at the ballpark in 100 years. CANON.


_A/N: Last week, I sat in on a college baseball practice and I swore I saw Zachary Quinto moodily eating popcorn. Plot bunnies kept me busy the entire game!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Heroes franchise._

**Warnings: Slight language.**

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America's Favorite Pastime

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The popcorn was too buttery. The seats were solid red plastic, and uncomfortable like a sitting a lead pipe against a human spine. His cap smothered black flyaway hair, and his cowboy boots were propped up on the chair in front of him. Sylar didn't bother to flip off the stares coming his way.

He was under the lights at the world famous "Linderman Ball Park" in Las Vegas, and he was going to have fun. Too bad that it was his birthday today. Number 136 sucked.

A breeze made the zipper of his green jacket stab painfully into his ear. There was a thump next to him. "You're back to wearing glasses, huh?"

Irritated, Sylar snapped, "You shut it. Just because you've got all your powers back including supervision doesn't mean you have to comment." Spitefully grabbing a fist of popcorn, he glowered, turning to see Peter's very amused brown eyes.

Peter Petrelli had not aged one day. Dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, the 135 year old faded into the cult classic baseball watcher; he had even gotten the blue team's baseball cap in the lobby. His dark hair was cropped ungainly at his eyebrows, finally getting it out of his smoldering brown eyes. His grin was insanely crooked.

Eying the sandwich in his friend's hand, Sylar grumbled, "I got here an hour ago, ready to fight the mob for seats and I didn't even get in a fight for third-base line. Nobody shows up anymore. Wasn't this the old American pastime? Nathan loved it."

"He was about as all-American as you can get." The guy next to him shrugged off his coat, and put up his Converse sneakered feet. There were no more punches and knees to the groin after a mention of his dead brother because _everybody_ they knew had died. Living forever certainly had its hardships. "You know, I think Claire gets to go get the hot dogs this time."

"Agreed."

About ten minutes later, a petite woman's voice came from the stairs, where a vendor had been screaming at the top of his lungs. "Six hot dogs, three drinks…a bag of Cracker Jacks."

Sylar was relieved.

A tumble of steps later, and Claire was scooting in to sit next to the two men. They stared at her arms balancing the disposable trays crammed with extra goodies, including a bag of popcorn and two buttery pretzels. Her baby face was vexed, and before either of the men could speak, she snapped, "I hate old guys hitting on me. What do I look like? Fifteen?"

Peter and Sylar exchanged looks. "Actually…"

"Don't even answer that, Peter." Her scowl could have frozen ice in hell, but she nicely slipped the bag of Cracker Jacks into Sylar's lap. "I'm old enough to be his great-grandma. Sick." She huffed.

Leaning over the black-haired man's shoulder, Peter helped untangle the steaming hot dogs smothered with pickle relish. With a shrug, he admonished gently, "I thought you were gonna quit worrying about it." His eyes must have met Claire's, because her tanned Texan face went a couple of shades darker. Sylar rolled his eyes.

"Claire? Stop complaining? What planet have you been on for the last hundred years?" His wink made Peter's face twist into a wide grin while Claire just ruefully slapped his shoulder. Sylar was surprised she could do it with the stack of food in her arms.

"Shut up. Just shut up."

The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, describing each of the teams. Rabid fans were screaming, looking like a mob ready to leap the fence for blood. Sylar snorted, licking his fingers. The lights were up and bright, blinding him.

Suddenly there was the respectful silence that could only mean one thing: the Star Spangled Banner.

He clambered to his feet immediately, shaking off the hat. His two comrades hastily placed the armload of food back on the seats, swearing when the stupid red things flipped slightly. The three of them guided their gazes to the American Flag flapping above the stadium in the lit up Vegas sunset.

The music soaked up in Sylar's head; he could hear the notes hit the perfect pitches as the male singer on the field lifted his arms. Two rows behind him, he twenty heartbeats picked up. He peeked.

There were twenty men all over the age of sixty dressed in formal army uniforms. Sylar nodded in acceptance. As the song finished, the crowd cheered, and fireworks went off like loud booms. Awesome.

Once again, he slumped into his chair, ignoring his friends for a moment. Peter and Claire continued to chat, discussing whether specials should be allowed to play; after the hubbub had died down and most of the gifted had gone into hiding, there had been a few spotted playing advanced version of football (usually flying through the air), tennis (the ball went extra fast for speedsters), and Frisbee (that sucker went far when a super strength dude threw it). Sylar heard this all out of the corner of his ear, still focusing on the warm-up pitcher.

His legs curled, and planting his left foot, he rotated his hip, swinging his hand not holding the mitt straight toward a masked guy crouching down the baseline. The pitcher released, the ball flew, and a crack came from the little thing hitting the mitt. Like nothing important had happened, the catcher threw it back, loosening up before crouching again.

The pitcher threw it faster. His muscles were loosening from the activity, his mind subtly adjusting his strength.

The catcher caught it, threw it back. His legs ached, but his eyes flickered, subconsciously knowing where the ball would strike his mitt. He threw it back.

The pitcher threw it.

The catcher threw it.

Back.

And forth.

Sylar watched for a few minutes, entranced. Finally, he got it. In the outfield, there were a bunch of guys, running around after a ball that the coach had hit into the air. Obviously, they were trying to catch it without it touching the ground, to get an out. But they weren't playing yet.

Must be loosening up.

Ignoring Peter and Claire's teasing jabs, Sylar continued to stare at a warm-up batter across the field, noticing the tall man's stance. Equally spaced, back ankle ready to twist, arms relaxed, eyes sharply watching the pitcher. The men in the outfield were primed, legs ready to run, hands in their leather-bound mitts, ball caps facing down the hot sun.

"I know how this game works," Sylar muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sylar felt Claire lean over incredulously, "And you think we care? I don't really like this game. I just come to put up with you guys."

"This is insane," Sylar said, "There are so many things that can go wrong." More popcorn found its way into his mouth. His eyes sharpened while he adjusted his glasses.

Peter snorted. "Oh they do. These teams are the worst two in all of America."

Biting off half of her hotdog, Claire shrugged. She swallowed it in one gulp before laughing, "Basically, this game is long, boring, and has the potential to go on for six hours. Peter and I are going to chat, and you can join in if you want or you can actually watch the game. The last time we did this was sixty years ago, so I thought you knew this already."

Sylar frowned. "I'm refreshing it in my memory."

"Well keep refreshing it," Claire said, straw hanging out of her mouth, "We've got more than a few hours left."

_XXX_

"I can't believe he's still watching."

"I can't believe they're winning."

"I can't believe you care."

Peter glowered at Claire, leaning back in the red plastic chair. Bottom of the ninth inning. Blue Team: 3. Red Team: 2. To be fair, the teams weren't as bad as either Claire or he insisted. The ballpark lights made shadows deep on his face, making his compassionate eyes slightly hidden. He reminded Claire of Sylar, when she'd first seen him. A slight shiver of anticipation hit her.

"Well," he said sharply, "I used to play with Nathan. We'd go see these guys whenever the teams were in New York." He pointed carefully. "That guy is the grandson of the All-American pitcher from New York when I was 20. One of my favorites."

Claire lifted an eyebrow. "I thought with saving the world and all, you wouldn't follow sports at all."

Shrugging, Peter smiled. Rooted from his utter silence, Sylar snapped, "This is the here and now. We have time to follow sports." He irritably gave the blonde a look.

"Wow, _Sylar_," Claire said, not too terribly angered, "I didn't know you liked this game."

"It's better than cheerleading."

If he had been meaning to prod at her ancient past time, she didn't rise to the bait. "There's a lot of unnecessary drama. Not gonna lie."

Laughing outright, Peter said, "You're actually going to admit it?"

The smile Claire gave the man sitting next to her could have sweetened milk. "I hate to break the secret, but girls are bitches in general." She batted her eyelashes. "At least we add entertainment to the games. I mean, who really wants to sit and watch a bunch of guys pummel each other?"

Sylar's caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. At first, Claire stared at him, unsure of what he was doing.

Then there was a crack.

Roaring exploded from the masses of fans as the ball whipped into the air. The batter's legs began pumping into a full powered sprint towards the first base when it was clear that the ball was going to clear the fence on the back field; the fellow on the third base watched the descent with rapt attention, then slid across the white plate. The voice of the announcer hit the speakers, causing people to squeal. The noise was deafening.

Claire stared at Sylar.

The man's smile was turning into a smirk. "Who says boys can't have fun?"

"No." The blonde haired girl crossed her arms sourly. "I don't _cheat_ when I do it."

"Hey, hey!" Peter yelled, nearly choking on the red bendy straw he'd been chewing on for several hours, "That's my team falling behind!"

Sylar grinned. "Who cared about the games again?"

"You, my friend, are a cheat. What's Pete gonna do now that he doesn't have a team to agonize over?" Despite the rude accusation, Claire's large eyes were sparkling. Her smirk didn't leave even as she shoved a dainty hand full of popcorn past her lips. The cool air was causing a lovely flush over her ageless cheeks.

The man being discussed didn't even seem to notice: his eyes were staring wide-eyed and furious, mouth agape, and knees knocking the red seat in front of him with a steady beat. Dirt puffing at his carefree lope, the home-run hitter gingerly stepped onto the plate. Lights flashed rapidly, cameras and videos overtaking the black sky. His teammates, decked in firecracker red uniforms, were roaring and slapping the man's back like he'd won a million dollars. Peter's face was slack.

The look on his face was priceless. Sylar situated his body in his seat again, boots tapping at the concrete. "It's just a game, Peter."

"Yeah, you cheat!" The chocolate haired man whipped to the side, prodding Sylar none-too-gently on his chest, "You do know that your team just won because the red is the home team and it's the bottom of the ninth, right? The blue can't even get last bat!"

Claire raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes! You don't even know how screwed my team is!"

_What a whiner_. The black-rimmed glasses were dirty; Sylar removed them carefully and wiped it clean on his shirt. "They have to get three outs."

"Sylar. They have two outs already. One more is just going to seal the deal."

"Precisely."

Claire giggled. "You two sound like bickering brothers." Wiping her greasy hands on her pink jacket, she continued, "If it's sealed, can we beat the crowds? I'm not going to let you guys get away with flying and leaving me a stranded victim." The boys glowered at her, dark eyes simmering with resentment and smugness. She raised her blonde eyebrow at the dramatic overreactions.

Like they could hear her thoughts, Peter and Sylar stood, straightening their jackets with firm hands; a stranger would have thought them twins. The boys shuffled across the concrete stairs to the aisle. The simultaneous movement startled Claire; she hesitated before clambering up.

It took her one hundred and forty two stairs to reach the middle level where the northern entryway was situated. Huffing from the lack of air, she followed the two figures in dark jackets and hats (who looked like they hadn't even broke a sweat) to an exit ramp. The darkness was starting to leak past the fluorescent ceiling lights swaying in a warm Las Vegas breeze.

The crowd was roaring. A few fans had also deserted behind the trio and Claire found herself walking nearly on Peter's ankles to escape a rather skinny teenager with floppy blonde hair. She prayed he wouldn't check her out. Disgusting.

On the street, the taxis were whipping around each other like rabid animals. The flashing neon yellow, green, red, purple, and blue lights mixed into a sea of color, shading the happy hour dresses and jeans.

Claire took a breath. Ah, Vegas!

The crowds pushed at the trio's back, causing them to be swept into a shadowy recess behind the concrete support beams. There were banners reading _LINDERMAN!_ hanging high on shining metal poles, and popcorn, wrappers, and beer cans were steadily rolling across the ground under the feet of the people. It was quiet and content.

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes downcast. He seemed to be over the fact that his team had unfairly lost. The sky was a black mass without any stars from the ambient light of Las Vegas. The Strip was calling from ten feet away with sirens, spotlights, and thumping bass coming from low-riding convertibles. The casinos were beckoning with smells and lights and dollar signs. There was so much to do in the world, yet it was comforting to just be here for two moments with his best friends.

With a hand on her tiny hip, the blonde-haired woman took control.

"This is it, boys," Claire said softly. She turned to Peter, wrapped her arms around his frame, and lightly patted his back, "When can we do this again?" She released him.

Scratching his head, Sylar frowned, accepting her hug when she moved into his left arm. "Whenever you want. I'm free whenever." His glasses were deep black against his white skin. Shaking Claire off gently, he shook hands with Peter.

A warm wind picked up the hood of Claire's jacket. "Can we do it sooner than twenty years? We could go somewhere else. Maybe a beach to go swimming, or surfing, or holding our breath under the water..."

The former serial killer wryly smacked her shoulder, an idea forming in his head.

Why couldn't he do it?

"Come watch me play in five years," Sylar said.

With a laugh that sounded more like a snort, Peter slapped the man's stout shoulder. His brown eyes met Claire's, silently laughing. "You liked it that much, huh?"

"Yes!" The girl laughed triumphantly, hands planting on her hips. With one finger jerking to them, she continued, "It won't take you that long to get into a team as exclusive as _this_ one. Besides, I want you to hit a true grand slam for me. None of that cheating stuff." Curls of blonde bounced over her shoulder as the white of her teeth grew into a smile that lit the darkness around them.

"Consider it done, Claire," Sylar promised resolutely.

The returning smile on the woman's face was bright as the stars. "Goodbye, Sylar." Her head cocked; her blue shining eyes flashed to her uncle. "Bye, Pete." With a wave, she began weaving through the crowd toward the cement curb, eying the giant gray bus stopping.

Peter waved. "Bye Claire," he whispered. Sylar remained silent.

The blonde's hand waved above the tall shoulders of a man near her, and then she had pushed and prodded her way aboard a bus that was packed to the rim with people. A flash of her white shirt was the last sight of her through the tinted windows. The electronic sign read NEXT STOP: LAS VEGAS AIRPORT.

The two men watched it pull out into a crowded street before Sylar shook Peter's hand one last time. "See you later, Pete," the man said, rearranging his glasses on his straight nose. With a nod, he stepped back into the shadows, feet already leaving the ground before he was completely hidden. In a gust of wind the man was flying away from the concrete stadium.

Peter was all that was left. He grinned.

Whistling under his breath, Peter took one step with his sneakers away from the Strip. The stars would be beautiful out in the countryside, on the western hills behind the subdivisions.

The feeling wouldn't leave his chest. No matter how corny the crowd, how rude the company, how terribly skilled the teams, how salty the popcorn, how loud the ringing in his ears or the aching in his heart, he loved the hours spent at the Linderman Ball Park. It might be years before he saw either Sylar or Claire.

One thing was sure: he'd watch America's favorite pastime with them again.

_0_

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End file.
